


No Sleep

by houston180



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: Fucked Up, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 06:24:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14665179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/houston180/pseuds/houston180
Summary: Epilogue to the end of Call of Duty: Ghosts.After years as a prisoner of war, AWOL and running from the Federation, Logan Walker wonders what it was all for.





	No Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warnings: too many to list. If you have any, you are advised to stop reading here.
> 
> Disclaimer: the author does not condone or promote any views, content, or ideas contained in this piece; it is intended as a work of art. 
> 
> This story takes place in the same timeline as previous, including those works written and posted by arienai. Please check her out if you haven't already.

How far can you fall? 

Inside the barn the air is thick with motes of dust eddying through moonbeams; cast offs of the chaff stirred up with the slow, restless movements of bodies in recline. It’s dark. Heavy with sweat and shallow breathing. Light only filters in through cracks, and even though the moon is full and low it’s not quite enough to see by. The doors are closed at dusk, as a precaution against accidental discovery… maybe a hypervigilant one since the only other humans to pass in the night are sleepless travelers tearing up the road too fast to notice the mossy roof of the old wooden skeleton of a building, much less the homeless men squatting inside. 

The other two are asleep already. Curled up on the other side of the short wall of old hay bales, out of the line of the doorway and as far away from where they’ve made their bed as possible. If he stretches out his left arm just slightly, his fingers immediately brush rough, bristled fur where the dog has chosen to make his bed tonight. On his right the only other person here is awake. He doesn’t need to look to know; the sound of his breathing is enough to tell by. Too even. Too measured.  
And too close. Rorke rolls over twice in his sleep: first away, then back again as soon as a deeper slumber takes him, the kind he won’t wake from easily. Every night, every time. How many months of being unable to let himself rest fully until that second turn? How many more spent contemplating the opportunity that presented itself as soon as it came? Silent hours spent with the sound of his heart in his ears and his eyes locked on the veins in the sloped curve of his neck, just where it meets his jaw, too terrified to move. He did try, once, to reach for it. 

Found out how his breathing sounds when he’s pretending to sleep, then. Wonders why he’s pretending now.

Now when his right hand passes between them slowly, finds his side, brushes it with a firm press of palm and fingertips, Rorke’s hand doesn’t close around his throat. Not tonight, anyway. The silvery hush of shifting hay betrays the other’s silent sigh before he levels a low noise of irritation and assent: pretense broken. One of many between them- no telling how many more left to go. 

Maybe more than Logan wants to admit; when the man beside him begins to shift on his shoulder with the intent to bring their faces close, he recoils. Is it selfish to not want to kiss him now? No matter how hard he wills himself not to pay attention - not to care - there’s something raw, exposed, painful that swells up under his skin. The hand still held tight against his side pushes back hard against the movement and he stops him with the full weight of his thigh against the back of the other’s leg. It hurts inside, more than being opened carelessly with forced, selfish thrusts ever could. On nights like tonight there’s a tightening cage of desperation locked around his chest that makes him want to give it back.

Make _someone else_ hurt. 

Hurting Rorke, though? Almost impossible. Prying fingers that would bruise anyone else only elicit a mirthful rumble that slips out of the black shadows somewhere above his head; a vaguely pleasured chuff of interest. The same sounds he’s made with a broken nose, a black eye, bruised ribs. With the painstakingly-sharpened end of a fateful tree branch driven inches deep into his thigh. It never stopped. Nothing short of killing him would have, maybe, and he was never able to do that no matter what he tried. Nothing slowed him down except for distractions. Somehow, distractions became conversations became a routine became… this. Whatever this is.

Whatever it is is enough for the familiar tide of heat to ebb slowly and steadily from a face already beaded with sweat. Enough for his teeth to catch in his lip and his breath to puff out in a sharp gust. Enough for his cock to jump and grow stiff when he feels a hand reach back for his hip and squeeze lightly. It feels dangerously warm, with just the slightest hint of affection in it, but affection isn’t what Logan wants right now. 

This man killed his father. Raped his brother. 

Those thoughts come to him suddenly, from the deepest part of his heart where they have been pushed away from the forefront in fear, shame, desperate survival… and the pain is white hot- as fresh as if it were yesterday. On its heels, unshackled rage. 

He wants him to hurt for it, even though he knows how much he’s been hurt already. Without another thought he pushes his face against the straw and grinds roughly against his ass to get harder when Rorke tries to speak. He doesn’t want to talk right now, even though his body is primed and aching for sex, and he’s been trained to vocalize these things. He doesn’t want to play along. Doesn’t want to hear Rorke laughing, even though he is.  
Just wants to bury himself in the body beneath him and ride out the pain. 

On the edges of himself he can realize that Rorke is letting him do this, when he tears at the button to the other’s pants and drags the fabric down to expose his ass the action might be laced with violence, but the larger man isn’t exactly trying to stop him. On the contrary, the pressure he leverages against his cock to grind back against him is insistent and unrelenting. Rorke wants this as much as Logan wants to take it. That doesn’t stop him from gripping the back of his neck to keep his face held hard against the ground when he finally gets his cock out enough to slam into him. 

It’s so hard to hurt Rorke… but that doesn’t stop him from trying with each deep, full thrust into that tight, waiting hole. Doesn’t stop him from imagining the groan wrung out of the body beneath him is just … a little pained. Doesn’t stop him from imagining how many others must have done this to him in the past, before he became the monster who destroyed the Ghosts. How many times did it take, Rorke? A hundred? A thousand? More? It doesn’t matter, really. He knows the other loves this kind of treatment now. Sees it in the way his hips begin to arch up to meet his, and his legs spread invitingly; how he moans under his breath and tries to roll further onto his stomach for just a little more friction on his cock. 

Fleetingly, wonders if this is how he looks when Rorke fucks him: his body glistening with sweat in the low light and muscles tensing and relaxing with every short, swift pass of his cock into the other’s body- movements that get swifter and more fluid with every pump milking more precum out. Yeah, it looks good right now, but he never really liked how he looks in his own videos. Doesn’t enjoy watching them. He’ll just have to imagine that this is what everyone else is seeing; why they pay so much just to watch him getting fucked. Just as readily has to admit the thought turns him on, and just as easily as that, the knots of hatred in his stomach begin to relax with the next flood of heat. …Lets him really feel the brief catch around the head of his cock when he draws it out fully, teasingly, just to drive it home again with as much force as he can muster. 

He also has to admit that the pitched moan of pleasure it elicits sounds like music to his ears, even if he doesn’t want it to right now. Rorke really does have him trained well. The response is instant, ingrained. Even through Logan’s willful effort to break their script the breathless, half-groaned, “Mmh, come on kid” is more than good enough to have him redoubling his efforts on cue. To let him get to his knees when he wants to and be shoved casually into the nearest bale of hay so that Rorke can hold on to it while Logan fucks the hell out of him. He doesn’t care now. Rorke’s hole has gotten slick and loose and it doesn’t matter how hard he drives into him, he’s still going to come either way- 

If it weren’t for years of deep, cold, choking fear, he might not have moved in that moment.

He might have given in, ignored the prickle of ice on the back of his neck, and continued fucking until he slipped into a chasm of no return.  
Instead he turns, and with a flurry of shards the hay next to his head explodes. 

The world seems to slow and the next instant stretches into oblivion. Somewhere in the darkness he hears his dog growl. He’s on his feet without knowing how, his arm flung in front of his neck just as another flash of motion enters his periphery and something bites into his arm. The back of his skull connects with something hard and he hears the click of teeth knocked viciously together, then a muffled yelp and the skitter of paws on hay. His fingertips brush fabric, don’t find purchase, and then in another moment the second body – the intruder – has stumbled backward, out of the light.

Another flash. His arm moves once more to meet a guess between death and nothingness, and this time there’s the scrape of steel on bone: a knife catching against his forearm. Whoever it is doesn’t have time to attack again. The shadows in the barn are black ink overlaid on fading threads of hazy pleasure; all that’s visible is a brief trace of two arms flung back to find purchase and just a sliver of skin hitting the edge of the light. Mottled whorls of new burn scars lay out an exact map of how Rorke has the stranger pinned. 

Too simple to prise the weapon from shaken fingers, consumed with fighting off arms slowly throttling the air from an exposed throat. That would be the easy kill, wouldn’t it? Go for the throat? But then… then he spots eyes gleaming in the low light, reflecting his flushed face and the pinpoint of moonlight on steel. Locked on him. A slow bloom of lust in the pit of his stomach courses inevitably downward. This is what Rorke sees when he’s watching him. It’s mesmerizing. Captivating. 

The man in Rorke’s eyes angles the knife up by a few degrees so it will slip easily beneath the sternum, and the distance closes between them. The knife performs its task with surprising grace, barely a whisper of resistance as it slides gradually home. The beam of light disappears, and with every inch it sinks deeper the man in Rorke’s eyes fades a little more. Warm, then cool. Wet. A gush of blood on his knuckles. The only noise to make it past the arm pressing the assailant’s throat closed is a whimper that ends in a gurgle when the last of the light shining in those hungry eyes slips out of view and the hilt settles gently against solid bone and cartilage.  
Logan feels the last heartbeat vibrate frantically up his arm from the point where the metal has lodged itself. He’s close enough now that spray flecks his face when the man tries to cough as Rorke is dropping him. His own arm is still bleeding from the cuts. It’s tempting to pick it up and suck on the wounds. He’s dizzy and breathless, but it isn’t from blood loss; with the body at their feet the light is back in Rorke’s eyes again, they reappear just inches from Logan’s face. 

He sees himself once more: naked, blood spattered, panting… one arm and the other hand darkly coated and shining. Still half hard, still gripping the knife, cock wet enough to glisten- to draw those eyes downward to drink it all in. And then Rorke all he can focus on; his scent - blood, sex, power - fills his head to drowning. Rorke is still just as hard as Logan, but even if he wasn’t it wouldn’t matter: the way he looks right now pulls spikes of arousal from low in his abdomen.  
He doesn’t try to push away this time when Rorke reaches for his hair and yanks him forward by it to crush their mouths together. His limbs are shaking and his tongue feels dry. Bloody fingers slip clumsily over taut, yielding flesh, but his skin is on fire and each pulse feels like electricity in his veins. It eats away into his insides with terrifying speed; he needs to pull back and gasp, and when he does Rorke’s teeth close around his throat and the stab of pleasure that follows feels like ice. 

He was wrong. This isn’t a routine or a game anymore. What it was supposed to be - sacrifice of body over mind - didn’t exactly work out the way he planned it. It stopped being something he could control a long time ago. Maybe this is who he always was, maybe this is someone else Rorke made… he can’t tell anymore, and he can’t bring himself to care. 

When he shoves him onto his back on the ground, Rorke isn’t resisting it anymore either. He’s laid bare as Logan is, his face in the light revealing eyes gone deep and black with unrestrained lust, and Logan doesn’t need to be coaxed into following through anymore. This is exactly how he wants him. The dull ache of Rorke’s cock opening him up as he settles himself on it just makes his heart hammer faster in his chest and that fire inside burn hotter. Hurts, feels good… feels good, hurts. Hard to tell where one ends and the other begins, and he doesn’t wait to find out- just tips his head back and lets his jaw fall slack as he starts to ride him. 

On the edge of his senses he’s aware that the dog has stopped growling, and the hay under them is growing damp with pooling blood. Soon the unmistakable scent of it will reach the other two, if the noise didn’t wake them already. He can’t care. Rorke’s hands close over his hips to force his cock deeper and he feels so full and stretched and hot that it’s hard to breathe. Pain radiates in brief waves down the back of his thighs with each thrust that bulges in his abdomen, but it only makes him groan and move his hips faster. He wants this. He wants it to leave him sore for days afterward, so every time he moves he’ll remember how good this was; how his head is spinning and his chest is tight but he’s beginning to feel every inch of Rorke fucking him in his cock, and how every time he glances down he sees him smeared with blood and precum and looking back at him with eyes that destroy him. Everything he is. Everything he was. 

He could stay like this forever. 

Wants to.

He’s moaning openly now, not bothering to bite his hand or cover his mouth. Can’t help it, even if he tried. Rorke’s cock has gotten wet enough that his thrusts slap their hips together and the pain is dissolving into creeping heat and devastating pleasure that somehow doesn’t come from his cock, but wells up slowly from somewhere in his gut in a way he has never managed to find on his own. Only Rorke has ever been able to do this do him, and he’s utterly helpless in the face of it. It makes his legs get weak and his face go hot and his spine arch to take more of him in. Has to lean over onto the other’s chest to catch himself, but only gets weaker as that sensation takes him over. It’s so good that he can barely feel anything else but the cock inside him and the hands on his hips pulling him down harder and faster.

It feels exactly the same as it used to when he was pinned to his stomach on the floor of the interrogation room and brought to orgasm against his will. 

The same slow spread of warmth, loss of reality, blunting of pain; heightening of fear and anguish to know he can’t win against this. Can’t hold out as long as Rorke can. Just as helpless to resist it, even though he still does now, out of instinct. Jolted every time the other pulls his whole length out so just the tip is still buried, then slams it back home hard enough to make him strain to take it, even though he’s so slick inside that it’s already beginning to drip down the back of his thighs. He still fights it with teeth dug into his lower lip, with legs held taut until they begin to shake, with breath held so long his chest and lungs spasm and his entire body lights up from the tips of his fingers to curled toes.

_No. No don’t-_

Rorke groans, and this time it does sound slightly pained. He opens his mouth to suck in air harshly, but his breath catches as something inside him snaps. _Yes. Oh fuck yes._

The flood gates crash open. He’s floating and falling away from himself and he catches the closest ledge to hold on with bruising fingers, but outside of his mind his body is twisting and tensing beyond his control. Wave after excruciating wave. When it finally ends and he opens his eyes he isn’t surprised to find his hands closed around Rorke’s neck so hard that they leave stark red and white lines where his fingers were. He lets go to lean in to kiss him while he can still feel air coming in ragged against his lips; doesn’t need to open his eyes to know he’s still smiling. 

“Good, kid.” Like always, he could have missed the compliment if he were an inch further away. Anyone else would mistake it for a pleased rumble or the sated chuckle that comes through on its heels, but Logan hears it clear as day. 

The truth is he’s satisfied too, and already a little sore when he finally moves off to look at what they’ve done. The blood is cooling next to them. When he turns his head, there it is: a man he doesn’t recognize arrested in a pose that would be impossible in life. Bits of hay are stuck to the wounds. A short distance away there’s his dog, panting lazily with blood on his muzzle and an exaggerated yawn for Logan when he notices him. He wasn’t sure what he expected to feel, but when nothing comes to him he simply shrugs and whistles softly for the animal. 

It is what it is, now. 

They won’t be getting any sleep tonight.


End file.
